SURVIVOR: MIRKWOOD - Camping With Dwarves Challenge Edition
by Zoop
Summary: The Hobbit Reverse Big Bang prompt from Tumblr, reconfigured, revamped, reloaded, and reborn! Everyone's back after that heart wrenching battle to see who can survive 3 nights in Mirkwood... over-burdened with Dwarves! This is the REAL battle of five armies, folks!


A soaring musical intro precedes the opening titles, which boldly proclaim the most awe-inspiring post-BOTFA event of the Third Age:

**SURVIVOR: MIRKWOOD**

**(Camping with Dwarves Challenge Edition)**

_**... in which Thorin's Company is split across five teams because no one can put up with that many Dwarves all at once, nor should they have to, without the promise of a really awesome prize for doing so ...**_

The words fade into blackness, then a dim light begins to shine, like a sun rising in the east. It becomes clear that additional words are forming as the horizon brightens...

_**A Zooptacular Production**_

_**In partnership with Hobbitingaround as Artistic Consultant**_

Figures form in the brightening environment; figures that at first look like tall Men with outrageous haircuts. Then the figures coalesce, and they become great, hoary trees marching like soldiers into the far distance. This is clearly a great forest, deep and mysterious. Pinpoints of light seem to flash and blink from the shadows; the mind immediately conjures lurking watchers in the dark, resentful of any intrusion.

Mirkwood is not a friendly forest, which is why Zooptacular Productions has chosen it for this special edition of Survivor. Please welcome your hosts, all the way from the Wealthy Dragon's Alehouse in the center of Mirkwood: Filmandir and Elvadriewien!

Filmandir appears resplendent in a dark leather vest and trousers. His bright fuschia necktie clashes wildly with his auburn hair, enough to set anyone's teeth on edge. With a debonair bow, he sweeps off his black bowler hat and bows.

He is standing at the edge of the forest, under a crimson awning that also looks awful with his hair. Beside him are a humble office desk and chair the likes of which John Cleese would approve, and a white dry-erase board secured to an easel.

"Welcome, friends! I am Filmandir, your co-host for this special event. You may call me Fil, if you please. My partner, Elvadriewien, or Elva to her friends, is standing by with our first team's captain at their campsite. But first, let me tell you what wonders are in store for you in this edition of Survivor!"

Clearing his throat importantly, the Elf tugs on the bottom hem of his vest in the same way that most of the cast of _Star Trek: The Next Generation_ did when the wardrobe team messed up their costumes that one season. His grey eyes twinkle, and you notice that his eyebrows are a dark brown. Either he dyes his hair, or he's distantly related to King Thranduil, whose eyebrows also don't match his hair color.

Or maybe it's just a Mirkwood Elf thing.

"Here we have the team captains, listed for your convenience," Fil states, gesturing toward the board where Best Boy Glup (1) has scrawled a list of names on a crookedly-drawn grid. There are five rows – one for each team – and three columns with the headings 'Day 1,' 'Day 2,' and 'Day 3.'

"Team one, as you can see, is captained by Thorin Oakinshield. Now I know what you're thinking: Thorin didn't survive the recent battle, so what is he doing at the head of a Survivor team?" Fil chuckles and shakes his finger reprovingly. "Where would the fun be in that?" (2)

Nodding to an obviously off-camera cue, Fil continues, "I see that Elva is ready to introduce our first team, so we'll switch over to her. Elva?"

* * *

Now there are densely-packed trees all around, and the shadows seem only held at bay by the cheery campfire in the middle of the small clearing. A spritely Elf woman stands ready with a microphone; she is dressed in cargo shorts and a forest-green t-shirt, and wears a standard-issue pith helmet around which she has wrapped a decorative sparkly pink ribbon. Behind her, two Dwarves are struggling to erect an army surplus canvas tent.

"Hello!" Elva cries excitedly. "It is truly an honor to be standing here in the presence of the _great_ Thorin Oakenshield." A small figure clears his throat, and Elva whirls this way and that several times before finally looking down. "Oh! And how could I forget? Ladies and gentlemen, this little fellow is none other than Bilbo Baggins, finder of the One Ring and extremely eligible bachelor who is also a well-to-do landowner!" She waggles her eyebrows suggestively and nudges Bilbo, but because he is so much shorter than the Elf, her elbow rams his ear several times. He swats at her with both hands, an annoyed look on his face.

"I am trying to fetch my things, and you are standing on them," the Hobbit informs her as politely as his upbringing demands. Elva hops off his packstrap, and he nods a thank you that is only slightly tinged with loathing. Elva doesn't notice, and carries on unruffled.

"All jesting aside," she says, turning to the Dwarves arguing over the tent, "let me introduce you to the _very serious_ Thorin Oakenshield. Mister Shield?"

The tent-raising activity halts and Thorin slowly turns around. Lips barely moving, he mutters something incoherent.

"Eh? What was that?" Oin grumbles. "Dammit, will you speak up?" The Dwarf yanks the metal horn off his belt and puts it to his ear.

"I _said_, my name is _Oaken_shield, not _Mister_ Shield!" Thorin barks. "Now if you please, we are trying to raise this tent before the sun sets. If you would be so kind?"

Elva's smile is sunny and utterly unaffected as she turns to face the camera. "Sarcasm you can cut with a knife. Now over here is the last of the team, young Ori the Scribe. His and Bilbo's tent is already up, and they've managed to snag a rabbit for their dinner already. Kudos to you, boys!"

Ori nods noncommittally then ducks his head to hide the involuntary eyeroll. He opens his journal and with broad, bold strokes, begins to write...

_Day 1 has barely begun and I want to kill Thorin. Does that make me a bad person?_

"You've forgotten one," Bilbo informs Elva, and points to a small one-man tent in the shadow of the one Bilbo and Ori share. The aged Dwarf sitting in the entrance to the tent glares daggers at Bilbo.

"Oh my, so I have! Ladies and gents, the venerable Balin, who remembers the kingships of both Thror _and_ Thrain, and now grooms the heir to the throne to take up the crown once Erebor is reclaimed!" Her eyes widen and an impish grin splits her face. "Oops! That didn't go like you planned, did it? No matter! This is the makeup of Team One, Fil. Now back to you for a moment while I head over to the campsite of Team number two!"

* * *

The view switches to Fil, who has changed into a more elaborately-tooled leather tunic, replete with green-shaded overlays, typical of the style worn in the woodland realm. He still sports the fuschia necktie, however.

"Thank you, Elva. What a great team Thorin has assembled. Now let me direct you to the board, and the captain of Team Two, Thranduil the Elvenking! Elva will return shortly with a look at his team, but in the meantime, let's run down the list of captains."

Smirking with satisfaction, Fil chirps, "You may have noticed that the team captains, so far, are representatives of the races gathered for the great Battle of Five Armies so recently decided only a stone's throw – if you're a stone giant of the Misty Mountains – away. Team number three is headed by Bard, representing Men. Specifically, the Men of Laketown. He has a particular interest in coming out on top in this competition, for reasons we'll get to later on.

"Team Four, I have to say, is currently running in the underdog position, given the nature of its captain." With a conspiratorial smile and a wink, he states, "Azog the Defiler himself leads Team Four, in spite of being long dead even before the recent events unfolded. Being slain again in the recent battle hasn't diminished his ambitions, nor hampered his prospects for winning the prize."

Gesturing grandly at the board once more, Fil points to the last team captain's name. "And last but _definitely_ not least, Team Five boasts the Lord of the Eagles, Gwaihir, reluctantly representing his folk with all the grace and dignity one has come to expect of those majestic creatures.

"And there you have it! Five teams, three nights in Mirkwood, and may the best team prevail!" Acknowledging an off-camera cue once more, Fil continues, "And now Elva has caught up to the Elven representatives leading Team Two. Let's hear from them, shall we? Then I'll reveal the prizes for the top three teams!"

* * *

Another claustrophically small and close clearing barely brightened by its feeble campfire appears. Elva stands primly in the light with a slightly taller Elf of Great Importance, judging by the flowing robes and thorny crown upon his blonde head.

"This is an Elf who needs no introduction," Elva says gravely. "He has ruled the Mirkwood Elves and kept their interests safe for centuries. He rarely entertains guests in his domain, preferring the quiet life with his family and friends. Ladies and gentlemen, Thranduil the Elvenking." She thrusts the microphone in the king's face, startling him slightly.

"I... um... yes, thank you, Elva," Thranduil says, his brow pinched uncertainly as he takes the microphone in hand. Clearing his throat, he gathers himself and speaks haughtily. "It is with great pleasure that I participate in this... unique event. And I would also like to say that without my permission..."

"...none of this would be happening," Elva finishes cheerfully, snatching the microphone back. "This is absolutely true, ladies and gents: Because all of Mirkwood falls under Thranduil's jurisdiction, a lot of coaxing and needling had to happen to make it all possible. So be sure to thank Mister King whenever you get a chance, because without his support, we wouldn't be here!"

"I prefer to be addressed as 'your majesty,'" Thranduil interrupts sourly. "Not 'Mister King,' if you don't mind."

"Of course," Elva nods briefly, then continues unperturbed. "Not to be left out are the members of Mister King's team, his own son Legolas, and their small quota of Dwarves: Bofur and Gloin!" Glancing at Thranduil sympathetically, she adds, "Poor thing. Only two?"

"That was all I had the stomach for," the Elvenking sneers. "And for the last time, it is 'your majesty,' _not Mister King_."

"I kind of like Mister King," Legolas points out, his lips pressed to keep from smiling. "It gets right to the point, doesn't it?"

"Are these Elf-made?" Gloin growls from one side of the clearing, the canvas and one tent pole in his hands.

"I think they were done by Men," Legolas, son of Thranduil, observes. Noting the stamp on the side of the crate, he says, "'IKEA' isn't an Elvish word."

"Ought to have gotten our shelters from Dain," Gloin grumps as he tries to figure out the tent's construction. Whoever packed them (3) did not include instructions. "At least a Dwarven tent would make sense."

"How about a song then?" Bofur suggests. "It's such a gloomy place here. I know a good one about an inn..."

"Oh _please_," Thranduil groans, rubbing his eyes. "_Do_ make an infernal noise to attract every beast and spider within a mile. That is _precisely_ what we need now."

"Sod off, yuh great twit," Bofur mutters under his breath, and sits heavily down on Gloin's pack. Elva turns a glowing, oblivious smile on the camera.

"There we are, Fil!" she cries. "Team Two representing Elves. Back to you, while I trek through the forest to our third team's location!"

* * *

Fil returns, sporting yet another outfit, this time reminiscent of Laketown nobility with lace trim on a burgundy crushed velvet smoking jacket. His signature fuschia tie completes the ensemble in a way no self-respecting fashion designer would dare attempt. He claps his hands and rubs them together with a cheeky grin on his face.

"Ah yes, the _prizes_," he beams. "What are our brave competitors striving for? What grand riches await the ultimate Survivor?"

Fil points to the board again. "You'll notice there are three days identified here. At the beginning of each day, our helper (4) will mark the number of team members who have survived the night in the appropriate column. The team with the _least_ attrition will be declared the Ultimate Survivor, and take the grand prize. And what is that, you ask?" The Elf chortles and his eyes twinkle. "All in good time. The team with the next fewest lost members will take second prize, and then the third best team will be awarded the consolation prize. Here to determine the scoring for both survival and situational challenges are the members of the White Council!"

Sweeping his left hand out, Fil gestures grandly toward a group of five figures seated behind a long table with a white table cloth. They are shielded from the sun's rays by a similar awning to Fil's, except that it is neon orange.

"All the way from Imladris – that's Rivendell, to our less-well-travelled viewers – is the great Elrond Half-Elven himself. Next is Galadriel, sometimes called the Lady of the Wood, who hails from Lothlorien. Practically her neighbor is Saruman, currently residing in fabled Orthanc in the valley of the Isen. Closer to home, and certainly boasting the shortest commute of any of our judges, is Radagast the Brown. Last but not least, on his way westward with the Ringbearer before being waylaid to participate in our little competition, is Gandalf the Grey!"

The five judges raise a bored and clearly annoyed hand in acknowledgement when their names are spoken, with the exception of Radagast whose hat erupts in cheerfully chirping birds at the sound of his name. One flies over Saruman's head and lets a short stream of white and grey poop fall on the wizard's shoulder. Saruman turns a baleful eye on Radagast.

"Curb your vermin, hedge wizard," he growls.

"I had nothing to do with that," Radagast protests innocently.

"On to Team Three!" Fil crows happily. "It seems our lovely Elva is speedily working her way around the campsites, and has reached the team led by Bard. Elva?"

* * *

"Thank you so much, Fil!" the Elf woman cries. She is in another campsite similar to the previous two, with a very nervous Elf at her side. "Sadly, I've been informed by the team captain, Bard the Bowman, that until their shelters are all set up and Beorn returns with something they can eat, he will not be interrupting his activities for idle chatter. So here is a member of his team, Lindir, all the way from Imladris and Elrond's court, which I am sure will have no bearing on the judging whatsoever." She beams a bright smile at the Elf.

"I assure you, Elva, no conflict of interest will arise," Lindir informs her. "Master Elrond is a fair Elf."

"Of course he is," she nods indulgently. "I see that Bard has engaged the rest of his team in shelter-building: there are Bard and Dori erecting one, and I believe Bombur is working on another. What task has Mister Bowman assigned you on this first day of the competition?"

"I am to fetch twigs and branches for firewood," Lindir announces primly. "As you can see, I have proven myself quite handy in that office." He points to the merrily crackling fire.

"Oh, did you also light it?"

"Well, no," the Elf mutters with embarrassment. "That is... a task better suited to Dori."

"Confound it, Dwarf!" Bard suddenly shouts. He brandishes a tent pole at Dori. "It is a simple design! How can you not know how to erect it? Your kind build ridiculously enormous underground halls with gravity-defying architecture, yet you are _baffled_ by a simple _tent_!"

"Give me stone, then!" Dori retorts. "I will build you a solid bunker no spider could possibly penetrate! This... this _paper-thin canvas_ will not keep us _dry_, let alone thwart a spider the likes of which I saw the last time I was in this cursed forest!"

"It is all we have, and it was made by the best tent-makers in all of Laketown!" Bard counters. "Now hand me that peg."

"If I don't get some tea soon...," Dori grumbles, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Oh good, tea!" Bombur interjects. "Do we have biscuits?"

"Not since you ate them all!" Lindir scolds hotly, then quickly regains his composure. "Apologies, Elva. It _is_ only three nights, correct?"

"Absolutely, Lindir. I'll leave Team Three in your capable hands, and brave the gloomy path to where Team Four is setting up shop. In the meantime, let's go back to Fil to find out just what those pesky little prizes are anyway!"

* * *

Back at the forest eaves, Fil has once again switched his clothing out in preparation for the next team's introduction. He wears a ruggedly-cut leather kilt that nonetheless appears rather becoming, and gladiator-style leather sandles. The omnipresent fuschia necktie looks even more ridiculous against his pale bare chest.

"Thank you, Elva," Fil says with a bow. Affecting a dramatically grim expression, he continues, "Three nights in Mirkwood, with teams made up of armed and hostile rivals. A frightening proposition, to be sure. The rewards for this endeavor ought to be worth the pain and suffering about to ensue."

Suddenly, the Elf's serious façade melts away and he's all smiles. "Of course they are! Let's start from the least to the best, shall we?" Reaching for a clipboard on the desk, Fil continues, "The consolation prize for third place is a very special item that came into our possession only recently, thanks to our newest employee (5) here at Zooptacular Productions." He loosens a thick manilla envelope from the clipboard and holds it up.

"Within this humble envelope rests the deed to none other than Goblin-town, recently placed on the market due to the untimely demise of its previous owner. With the help of the residents who call this sprawling metropolis home, the third place finishers will have a _wonderful_ time renovating and redecorating this vast network of tunnels and delvings in the heart of the Misty Mountains, just a hop, skip, and a jump away from that other famous vacation spot, Khazad-dûm!"

He lays the envelope on the desk, then pulls a small piece of cardstock from under the clip and holds it up. "For the team who comes in second, it is my great pleasure to announce that our production company has donated this ticket to receive a _special_ live blind date at the Wealthy Dragon's Alehouse, hosted by yours truly and Elva! Love has blossomed in our capable hands almost as often as blind hatred! Either way, I'm sure you'll all flock to your nearest television to watch the events unfold as the second place winning captain embarks on a love – or hate! – connection with a certain eight-legged lady whose prior adventure on our show went so incredibly wrong. (6) She's such a trooper, coming back around for another go! Bless her little black heart!"

Again, Fil nods to a cue off-camera. "But it seems our lovely Elva has reached the camp of Team Four. Let's go there now, and see what Captain Azog is up to. Elva?"

* * *

The campsite for Team Four is little different from the others, with the exception that the large tent being raised by the three Dwarven team members is a good ten yards away from the lean-to the Orcs are building. Also, the carcass of a bear that has been thoroughly gutted, with huge chunks harvested from it, lies on the Orc side of the clearing. Several bloody chunks are roasting over the campfire. Before Elva can speak, a tall (comparatively speaking), bald Dwarf informs her that it isn't what she thinks.

"That poor bastard isn't Beorn," Dwalin tells her. "I think Bolg wishes it was, though." He gives the younger of the two Orcs a hateful glance, then returns to the tent raising.

"Well, there you are, Fil!" Elva pipes up. "Team Four, led by the _infamous_ Azog the Defiler. I think the judges were being particularly snarky when they divided the teams so poor Azog and Thorin wound up with more Dwarves apiece than any other team." Striding across the campsite to where the captain and his son are hard at work erecting their shelter, she continues, "If I may interrupt for a second..."

"You may not," Azog interrupts. "Hand me that thong," he snaps, and Bolg passes a leather strip to him. Bolg continues to secure the thick fir branches on the left side while his father ties up the right.

"Just ignore him," Bolg tells Elva in an undertone. "He's still pissed he got a Durin."

"Right you are, Mister Bolg," the Elf chirps happily. "Your dad is the lucky captain over not only Dwalin, whose exploits in battle are legendary, but also one of Thorin's nephews, Kili!"

"Don't remind me," Bolg mutters, yanking a thong so hard it breaks. "Dammit." He retrieves another and starts over. "Little git won't stop going on and on. It's 'Tauriel this' and 'Tauriel that' and 'she's just so pretty' and I think I'm gonna puke."

"If I hear it one more time, I'll cut his tongue out," Azog chimes in. "Bad enough she's a stinking Elf."

"No offense taken," Elva quips with a wink. "Rounding out Team Four is the _wickedly_ dashing Nori, who seems to have located the hair dresser's trailer without any trouble." Leaving the Orcs to their work, she strides over to where the Dwarves' shelter is coming along at a furiously slow pace. "How goes the tent-raising, boys?"

"Tell me something: why wasn't I put on Team Five with Tauriel?" Kili demands. "Just swap me out with my brother, all right? Who'll notice?"

"Now, now, you know that's not how this works," Elva admonishes with a teasing laugh. "Nori, your hair looks fabulous. You were definitely looking a bit ragged there towards the end. It's good to see you all nice and neat."

"Thank you, Elva," Nori preens, smoothing a hand down the front of his spotless waistcoat and patting one of the three peaks of his elaborate hairdo. "Will the stylist be on hand every day? I need a touch-up in the mornings, just to keep this 'do from going wild."

"I'm afraid not, dear. You are officially 'roughing it' now." Elva pats the crestfallen Nori's arm sympathetically. "If you make it through the third day, I promise you a full spa treatment."

"Anyone got a light? I can't see what I'm doing here," Dwalin asks a little louder than necessary. Kili is too distracted by daydreams of Tauriel to reply, but Nori reaches for his pack.

"Sure." He produces an elaborately engraved silver oil lamp with a delicate handle. Dwalin narrows his eyes.

"Where'd you get this?"

"Rivendell," Nori replies innocently.

"How?" Dwalin presses.

"Nicked it."

Dwalin rolls his eyes and snatches the lamp from Nori's hands.

"And now, for the _great reveal_, back to you, Fil!" Elva announces. "I'm off to our fifth and final campsite."

* * *

In yet another costume change, the number of which rivals Stevie Nicks's back in Fleetwood Mac's touring days, the flamboyantly-dressed Fil appears in a peacock-blue silk shirt with a bright red feather boa wrapped about his shoulders. The effect is not remotely enhanced by his fuschia necktie, but he defiantly wears it anyway.

"Now the moment you've all been waiting for: what will the grand prize winners of Survivor: Mirkwood receive? The team with the most members alive at the end of the third day, the team whose camping prowess is proven to be superior to all others, the team that manages to overcome internal strife as well as random external attacks ranging from spiders to Orcs to other teams...

will receive...

in its entirety...

_the legendary hoard of Erebor!_"

A majestic fanfair thunders, following the grand prize announcement. Fil nods smugly until the music fades. "Indeed, a worthy prize, and one likely to inspire quite a few rivalries to surface as each team aims to be the one with the most members left standing. I see by the stage manager's signal that Elva has made it to the last team's location. Let's go see what Team Five looks like, shall we?"

* * *

This time, the campsite isn't on the ground. Due to the team captain's need to take flight, the Dwarves are frantically building a large nest to Gwaihir's exacting specifications. The giant bird carefully places each twig and branch after inspecting them for shape and suppleness. Most of what Bifur brings him isn't acceptable, but no one has been successful in explaining exactly what is needed to the bewildered but still enthusiastic Dwarf.

"Welcome to Team Five's camp in the clouds," Elva announces as she perches on a thick branch just outside of the nest's perimeter. "As you can see, Fili and Bifur are hard at work bringing in the building materials while Tauriel hunts up a meal." Turning to the giant eagle, she asks, "This is bound to be an exciting challenge for you, Mister Gwaihir, supervising an Elf and two Dwarves for a few days. Do you have any thoughts you'd like to share?"

The team captain blinks his huge black eyes at the hostess and croaks, "They are idiots. I reserve the right to drop them from a staggering height if they don't do exactly what I say."

"No wonder they're working so hard on your aerie!" Elva cries. "Though one could argue that Dwarves are naturally very industrious, I'm sure the added incentive is a huge motivator." Hopping into the nest's frame, the Elf nods appreciatively. "Very springy! I think your little team is doing a great job!"

"It is mediocre at best," Gwaihir grouses. "Chicks fresh from their eggs could do better with fewer instructions. And that one with the axe in his face... I have given him the same description three times, and he still brings the wrong type of branch." The great eagle shakes his head wearily. "He is closing in on becoming rations for the rest of us."

"Oh come now, Mister Gwaihir! Think of the grand prize! If you eat members of your team, you'll seriously hurt your chances of winning!"

The Lord of Eagles gives Elva a withering look, inasmuch as a bird's face can do so. "I would rather eat each and every member of all five teams than be buried in gold and gems. I'm not a _raven_, for crying out loud."

Elva laughs at the eagle's comment, earning her a hateful glare, which she misses entirely. "Nevertheless, I'm sure your team members feel completely different. It will be interesting to see how things work out." Turning away from the eagle, Elva continues, "And there you have it. All five teams, well on their way to answering the greatest challenge of the Third Age: Spending way more time than is strictly necessary with a bunch of grumpy Dwarves without killing each and every one of them! Back to you, Fil!"

* * *

Returning to the forest eaves, Fil is now (thankfully) dressed in a modest black suit made almost acceptably attractive by the splash of color in the form of that omnipresent fuschia tie, and sitting behind the desk. One almost expects him to utter the famous line, or for a grizzled old man in torn clothing and unkempt hair and beard to stagger in and say, 'It's...' Alas that neither of these things happen due to copyright restrictions.

"Thank you, Elva," he says with a smile. "The players are on the board, and the bell is about to ring, signaling the beginning of the game. Who will win? Who will lose? Who will die a gruesome death at the hands of a teammate? The answers to these questions and many more when we return after this commercial break."

_A series of ads for various inns and taverns, including the Last Homely House and the Wealthy Dragon's Alehouse, commences._

* * *

**Footnotes:**

(1) The Goblin Scribe, who recently came to Zooptacular Productions looking for work after the death of his former employer.

(2) _Because the Zoop said so_ is a good explanation as well.

(3) Likely the Goblin Scribe. He has many jobs at Zooptacular, and a bottomless well of spite to go with them.

(4) Guess who? ;)

(5) Yep, him again. :D A very wise hire, in my opinion.

(6) I direct you to Zoopers #10, where this disastrous date was briefly mentioned.


End file.
